


nothing which we are to perceive in this world

by sparrowshift



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bartimaeus Trilogy vibes, Character Injury., Enemies to Lovers, F/M, First Order with a flair for drama, Slow Build, The Force (but different), bad government no cookie, freedomfighter!Rey, investigator!Kylo, no djinn, snarky footnotes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:42:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22945732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparrowshift/pseuds/sparrowshift
Summary: *ON HIATUS!*She leaned over him, frowning, and bent down. Closer, and closer, so close he could count the freckles dotting her nose. Time slowed. Like the world was underwater.And then her hand reached out and grabbed the glasses off his face.Kylo Ren is the youngest Security Minister in history. Ruthless and skilled at manipulating the planes using the Force, he could even be the next Prime Minister. The only thing standing in his way is the pesky Resistance, one step ahead of him at every turn.But then he remembers a girl that mugged him years ago. He caught her name: Rey. And she might be the key to cracking the case.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey & Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 7
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *This fic is on hiatus! Read at your own peril.* 
> 
> Before COVID-19 hit, I thought I could handle a fanfic epic with a semi-original magic system, political intrigue, a mystery, complex family histories, and a huge cast of characters. Unfortunately, I just am not in the right mindspace to finish this during the pandemic. So I'm trying to focus on fics with a smaller scale (in the hopes of eventually ramping back up to this!). 
> 
> I have all the chapters plotted out, and have written a lot that has not been published. I do hope to finish when the time is right. If I do decide that it's never going to happen, I'll post a summary of what would have happened so you can get closure.
> 
> \---
> 
> This is an AU with Bartimaeus Trilogy vibes, in that I’m using some Bartimaeus plot points, concepts, and general Kitty/Nathaniel energy (but this pairing actually has sex). Also, snarky footnotes. **You don’t have to know the Bartimaeus books** , though. And you’ll be disappointed if you want an actual crossover. There’s no Bartimaeus (best part of the series!) and no djinn. It’s written as though I had a vague dream about the Bartimaeus books where I could remember weird details, then channeled that into Reylo. 
> 
> I’ve tried to integrate the world-building naturally into the plot and story. So if you have questions about the world, they might get answered as the story progresses. I’ll add characters and warnings to the description as we go. 
> 
> Title is from e.e. cummings’ “somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond” because I’m shit at making up titles.

**The Cast  
** _First Order_

Mr. Rupert Snoke, Prime Minister

Mr. Armitage Hux, Information Minister

Mr. Kylo Ren, Security Minister

Ms. Jessica Phasma, Chief of Police

Mr. Dopheld Mitaka, Assistant to Mr. Kylo Ren

* * *

**Kylo  
** _Present_ **  
**

On the fourth plane, the signature emerged like a long-forgotten orchard. Hints of gold and rose hung in the air like fruit. Almost undetectable, faint and ghostly, but unmistakably there. 

The owner of the signature was long gone, but the effects of their presence certainly remained. On the first plane, First Order police were swarming the lot outside the warehouse. They were poking at every square inch of asphalt as though it might yield some vital clue. _Idiots_. 

Kylo Ren, Security Minister for the First Order, stood in directly in front of the warehouse building. He surveyed the scene and thoughtfully chewed a croissant. Phasma stood next to him. She was icy and disgruntled as usual, though she didn’t look like the early hour tested her as much as the situation. 

“This is the second time this month, Mr. Ren.”

He grunted and took another bite of the croissant, examining the welding marks on the door. Next to him, Mitaka was furiously snapping pictures. 

“Prime Minister Snoke will not be pleased.” There was Phasma again, never one for subtlety. She was incapable of taking a hint that he wanted to investigate undisturbed. 

“Indeed. It’s a pity, Ms. Phasma,” he drawled, “that the mighty First Order police can’t protect a single warehouse from a ratty bunch of commoners.” The croissant was really very good. Probably the copious amounts of butter, which he could make an exception for on days like these when the Resistance once again raised its head. He should give Mitaka a raise. 

Phasma glowered at him. “Resistance matters are your purview, Mr. Ren. Those rats should all be locked up by now.”

“And why would you think this is Resistance?” he asked, not listening as she began to give her (certainly wrong) assessment. 

He peeked inside the door. Aside from a few missing boxes, there was nothing interesting there. With a slight shift in focus, he scanned the second plane.[1] The previously-invisible tripwires glowed there undisturbed. That was unusual. How had the intruders managed to avoid them? Perhaps some stolen technology that let them see on the second plane…

He flicked to the third plane. Everything looked quiet there. On the fourth plane, he could see hot anger pouring off Phasma, who couldn’t cloak to save her life, and a nervous eager-to-please signature from Mitaka. All completely normal. 

But the same glow he had sensed earlier on the fourth plane still flitted at the edges of his brain. The signature was familiar, somehow. But as soon as he tried to concentrate on it, to bring it closer in focus, it was gone. 

Careful not to show any frustration, he turned around, ready to leave.

“Mr. Mitaka, bring the security tapes up as soon as you have them. And get a list of any missing inventory. I’ll be in my office.” He pulled on his mask.[2]

“Yes, sir.” Mitaka scribbled this into his notebook. “Oh, and Mr. Hux sent by some clips. He said they’ll go out in the papers tomorrow. I put them on your desk.” 

Yet another thing to look forward to on this fine morning. 

The warehouse was only a few blocks away from Starkiller, so there had been no need to send for a car. Kylo strode down the cobbled boulevard lined with tasteful silver birches, each spaced perfectly apart. Pedestrians kept their distance. With his mask and trench coat (a slight breeze picking up the edges), he looked appropriately menacing. As he had risen through the First Order, he had learned that appearances were important. He didn’t have the charm of some of the other members, but he could lean into ‘subtly dangerous.’ He liked to keep his image and reputation groomed. 

Thinking of his reputation didn’t bring him any pleasure today, however. Phasma, while subtle as a brick, wasn't wrong. This was the second theft this month, and this one was within a mile of Starkiller. It had been easy to play the Resistance off as a group of dissatisfied amateurs at first. But this theft would be harder to ignore, and there would be whispers. 

At least Hux would handle the press, though _that_ job was easy enough. The journalists were like lapdogs to the First Order. 

But Kylo needed a big break in the Resistance case, and soon. He had come too far to lose Prime Minister Snoke’s approval now. And the thought of Snoke’s particularly cruel brand of displeasure made him shudder. 

* * *

He saw the clip from Hux as soon as he had broken a pen in frustration (a morning tradition these past few months) and sat down at his desk. REN: OUR RISING STAR. Was that a backhanded dig? _Rising_ star. Surely his star had _already_ risen: he was the youngest Security Minister in history, promoted after handling a few tricky riots and retrieving some key powerful artifacts when no one else could. But as he read through the article, it was perfectly complementary. Glowing, even. Exactly what Snoke wanted. This would definitely primp him in the eyes of the masses. 

(He wasn’t popular among the First Order officials. He knew they talked — he had broken windows in a rage, could twist people’s minds with the Force, had killed his own master. [3] But Starkiller was a hive of backstabbers, so he wasn’t unusual in that respect. They were envious of Snoke’s favor, envious that he was being groomed to be the next Prime Minister.)

The article came with a photograph of him casually leaning against his desk, mask on. Hux had wanted to leave it off — “let them see the man behind the mask!” — but Kylo preferred some anonymity. And he didn’t trust Hux. What if revealing his face to the commoners at large made him an easier target? Occasionally he just wanted to walk around the park with a coffee[4] in hand, for fuck’s sake. It made it easier to think. And he had never cared for his own awkward face anyway. 

He moved aside the article. A thick beige folder sat below it. Inside sat the findings from the last investigation. He opened the folder brusquely, preparing to settle in for a grueling day of reading and re-reading the Resistance files. He knew every word by heart at this point, but it didn’t make a difference. All he had were a series of disturbances. An arson here, a few thefts there, increasing in frequency in the last year, closer and closer to Starkiller. 

The best lead had come from their pamphlets. The Resistance often left propaganda in public places where commoners frequented. The papers were filled with lies, of course, and were quickly confiscated, but Kylo had managed to use slight variations in the quality of the letterpress to find the printer. The owner had been easy to break, but had no useful information — he couldn’t remember names or faces, and Kylo doubted he had paid much attention to the content he was printing. The man had been disposed of despite his ignorance, of course. The First Order had zero tolerance for Resistance collaborators. 

Footage of the incidents had also been lacking, so he didn’t have much hope that Mitaka would turn anything up. Tapes kept coming back scrambled or blank. The perpetrators must have some technology that altered what got recorded on the first plane, and no tape could record the higher levels. 

Or someone on the inside got to the tapes before Kylo’s team did. 

Fighting back the urge to break another pen, he gazed out the window. The early morning sun was coming through, and the cherry trees were blooming in the Starkiller courtyard garden. He thought back to the signature he saw on the first plane. Pink and gold. Where had he seen that before? 

And then he remembered. 

* * *

_ Five years previously _

Kylo was months away from the end of his apprenticeship. Independence was so close he could taste it; he had a coveted position lined up at Internal Affairs. His knowledge of the Force and planes had impressed the interviewer, and he had received one of the highest grades on the practical entrance exam. Finally, his rise to power could begin in earnest.

Which meant, predictably, he was still running errands for his master. 

Still, the shopping district was nice in autumn. The leaves had turned red and orange. Winding streets wove between broader broadways lined with glittering shops. And, as much as he hated to admit it, the district was a good place to be seen. He had deliberately worn the glasses that helped him look into the planes. He didn’t need them — he was naturally sensitive to the Force, though he tried to keep that quiet — but they did show off he was a member of the Order. 

He was approaching the first shop on his list (chalk, predictably) when a small human-shaped object barreled into him. And sort of… attached itself. 

As he stumbled and tried to step back, he realized it was a girl, urgently tugging at his coat. She looked like she was around fifteen, maybe a little older. A commoner, judging by her dingy skirt and hair messily tied into an unusual three-bun style that would never have been acceptable in First Order circles. 

“Please, sir,” she said, eyes welling with tears as he looked at her. “It’s my little sister —" 

“I’m sorry, I can’t help —“ Kylo started, trying to brush her off. He had always hated public displays of weakness, particularly crying. But she clung tighter to his sleeve, openly sobbing now. How embarrassing. 

“She was playing in the alley when she fell and hit her head — I can’t find anyone to help — you work for the government, right?” 

At that, something inside him softened. She had recognized he was with the First Order, recognized the power he wielded. This could be an opportunity to get some good press. He could see the front page now, the splash of him carrying an injured child in his arms, looking ministerial. Besides, she looked so vulnerable with her three messy buns, her slender fingers clutching to him. 

And passersby were starting to give them nasty looks. 

He sighed. “Where?” 

She dried away a tear, then smiled beatifically up at him. “Just over here, on this block.” 

She led the way around the corner, then gestured. He ventured forward. The alley was dim compared to the bright street. But as his eyes adjusted to the light he only saw a bunch of trashcans and a mangy pigeon. 

“I don’t see — “ he turned around to see her no longer crying, a look of determination in her face, a long thin object in her hands. He had only a split second to construct the hastiest of shields before his entire body seized up. 

She had hit him with a Stunning Stick. 

He fell back, helplessly paralyzed. He couldn’t move any of his limbs. Stupid, _stupid_ — how could he have fallen for such an easy trick? In desperation, he flicked through the planes like he should have done in the first place — one, two, three, four — 

Then his mind went as numb as his body. 

Her aura was so dazzling his eyes hurt. She was painfully bright, golden shot with blush like a fiery peach… he’d never seen anything like it. If he hadn’t been stunned, he would have been incapable of movement anyway. 

She leaned over him, frowning, and bent down. Closer, and closer, so close he could count the freckles dotting her nose. Time slowed. Like the world was underwater. 

And then her hand reached out and grabbed the glasses off his face. The fourth plane vanished -- the stunning effect made it hard to maintain the view without the glasses’ help. She straightened up. 

“This any good?” she asked. For one crazy second, he thought she was asking him. But then out of the corner of his eyes, he saw another woman, shorter, with black hair in a ponytail. 

The other woman took his glasses and examined them. 

“Yeah, they’re good.” She nodded. The ponytail bobbed. “I think they help see the lower planes.” She stuck his glasses into a bag.

_That’s mine_. His mind started clearing as he filled with rage, but he was still incapable of moving or summoning the Force. 

The shorter woman shot him a look of pure hatred. “We should probably just kill him, you know. I don't think that stunning stick did a great job. He’s seen our faces, and he’ll remember us too.”

His attacker considered this, then shook her head. “That’s not what we’re here for. And he’s just a kid anyway. Probably the apprentice of some minor member. Besides, what’d he say, ‘I was attacked by two little girls?’. They’re an arrogant lot and hate showing weakness.” 

That made him angrier — to be so casually dismissed by someone who couldn’t be older than fifteen. And he was over six feet tall, no one could ever confuse him for a _kid_. 

“Rey!” he heard someone shout. “Police!” 

“Let’s get out of here,” his attacker told her companion. And then she moved out of his line of sight, taking her brilliant glow with her. 

He lay in the filthy alley for hours, violence flaring inside him as his limbs regained sensation. The gall of those _commoners_. It had been a dirty trick, without honor. And that girl, her dismissive tone —

She was right, though. He never told anyone what happened, merely telling his master he lost the glasses and accepting his punishment. One day he would have power and no one could touch him. Until then, he buried the memory of the pink-and-gold aura deep in his brain. Eventually, he had tricked himself into forgetting all about it…

* * *

_ Present _

…until now, with the cherry blossoms, sun streaming through the window. He chose not to focus on the delicacy of the image, concentrating on what it could do for him instead. He was certain that the girl had been at the warehouse. The signature on the fourth plane was the same. 

And he had heard her name. (Of course, he didn’t know it was her name — it could be her companion’s, the girl with the ponytail. But something urged him to say it was hers.) Rey.

Perhaps her gang was more than a simple group of street urchins. Perhaps she was the thread he could tug on to find the Resistance, stamp it out, and earn Snoke’s favor irrevocably. 

His blood hummed with anticipation. 

It felt satisfying to turn his long-ago moment of weakness into her downfall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1According to the _Rammahgon_ , reality is made up of multiple planes of existence, all on top of each other like a great cosmic sandwich. At birth, most humans can only see the first. Great power can be found by accessing and manipulating each of the planes using the Force — but the higher the plane, the more difficult the access. 
> 
> 2And dusted off all those croissant crumbs, but that seemed too undignified to mention. 
> 
> 3There was also the rumor, hard to shake off, that he had a particular fondness for pegging and some position that involved a feather duster. Better they think that than the truth: Kylo Ren was too busy gathering power for a personal life. Also, he was terrible with women outside of work. He would assume. If he had ever tried to talk to any of them. Which he hadn’t. 
> 
> 4Or croissant.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _On some level, Rey had always known that the First Order story was complete bollocks._
> 
> _She liked to say she had a nose for lies, but deep down she was always wary of people who claimed to protect her._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter has some Rey background, but not all of it. I’m taking that ‘Slow Build’ tag seriously, folks. Thanks to everyone that subscribed/commented/kudos’d the first chapter! This is my first fanfic in over 10 years, and my first multi-chapter fanfic, so I really appreciate it. I'm posting this chapter a little early to get the ball rolling, but my plan is to update weekly or biweekly, depending on how busy work gets.

**The Cast  
** _Commoners_  
  
Ms. Rey Niima, janitor, mechanic, spy

Mr. Han Solo, mechanic

Mr. Poe Dameron, gang leader

Mr. Unkar Plutt, scrap-metal purveyor, general dick

* * *

  
**Rey**

_Before_

On some level, Rey had always known that the First Order story was complete bollocks. 

She liked to say she had a nose for lies, but deep down she was always wary of people who claimed to protect her. Take her so-called “guardian,” Plutt. He always had her scavenging for metal in the scrapheaps. He didn’t care when she came home with cuts or broken limbs, didn’t care for anything except what she could dig up. Sometimes a First Order official would arrive, looking for materials to build their technologies, and Plutt would be there, bowing and cozying up. The official would be dismissive, request a lower price, which Plutt would often accept with a whine. There would be a greasy quality to the air around them both. Rey could never stand to stick around for long.

(She was seeing glimpses of the fourth plane, of course, unctuous with their greed — but she knew nothing about the planes or the Force then. She only knew she didn’t trust any of the officials in uniforms.)

And the posters in every public area were suspect. Each one was a study in remixing saccharine tropes. A rosy-cheeked mother. A stern but reassuring father. Brave young men and women. Bucolic orchards. Boys with sleeveless sweaters. Girls with ribbons in their hair. Dogs with soft brown eyes. A roast on the table. None of these things — allegedly possible through the grace of the Order — existed in Rey’s world. 

And then there was the incident in school.

Plutt had been forced to send her eventually, once a nosy neighbor noticed the dirty child that always seemed to be outside. School had at first been a blessing. For five hours a day she could sit in the warm golden glow of the classroom. At first she was quiet, but then she grew more bold in the knowledge that no adult would hit her there. She could ask as many questions as she wanted. 

And then, during a civics lesson, she ruined the whole thing. Her teacher, a young blonde with watery blue eyes and perpetually blotchy nose, had asked the class what purpose the First Order served.

“They govern us,” a student in the back suggested. 

“Yes, of course,” the teacher smiled. “But more importantly?” She nodded towards the student in the front with her hand raised, the student who always had the right answer for everything. 

“They protect us,” she said smugly. 

“That’s right, very good. Now —” 

Before Rey even knew what she was doing, she had raised her hand. 

“But what are they protecting us _from_?” she asked. 

Her teacher looked as though Rey had just asked why lamb chops weren’t a vegetable. “The return of the Jedi,[1] of course! Their lack of structure. Their reliance on soft and foolish ideals that would bring this country to ruin.”  


“But the Jedi -- what did they _do_? Why are they so bad?” She meant t he question sincerely. The thought of Plutt lecturing her on politics or history was laughable. 

“The First Order provides structure and control to the Force. They use technology to harness the planes for the good of the people.”  
  
“But what does that have to do with the Jedi —"  
  
“The Jedi, by virtue of being ‘gifted’ in the Force, simply did not have the discipline to make wise decisions about when to use it,” the teacher said, raising her voice in a way that denied argument, “and were easily corrupted. Hence their downfall.” 

“But — “

“Detention, Ms. Niima. A civics class is _hardly_ the time for politics, especially from someone who understands so little about the way our State works.”

After that, school never quite regained its early charms. She retreated back into quiet, doing her work dutifully and grateful that the classroom was at least free from Plutt. She made no friends. They recognized her surname meant her parents gave her up. _Niima,_ the name of the neighborhood. A place, not a _family_. 

Why couldn’t she have kept her mouth shut in class? Her surname would have been a hill to climb, it was true, but the hill of dissent against the First Order was much higher. And so she stayed alone for years.

* * *

_Present_

Even on the first plane, Starkiller was imposing. She walked into the shadow of the massive building, sheer black marble shot with white. The facade stretched across the length of the street. It was mostly geometric, presumably to reflect the values of the Order: hard edges and lofty columns. The only hints of organic life were the gold bases of the columns, carved into fearsome beasts turned docile by the benevolent strength of the First Order. Rey eyed the column closest to the entrance. The lion belly-up at the herculean minister’s feet was positively simpering. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. The First Order had a weakness for drama, even at the expense of good taste. 

As she entered the building and stood in line with the other Starkiller drones, she rearranged her expression to become “Kira” — dull and dutiful, ready to empty waste bin after waste bin.[2] Kira was neither a bad janitor nor an exceptional janitor. In this way, Kira was invisible. Rey handed her badge to security, who took a cursory look and waved her past. 

To someone less skilled in the Force, security was lax. But with a slight shift in her focus, she could see the wards gleaming on the second plane, high up in the columns and embedded in the walls. Some of her fellow “drones” had wards of their own hidden around their necks or inside cuffs. Clearly spies, meant to ferret out dissent in the lower workers. 

On the third plane, she could see the real security. The guards had concealed their movements on the first and second planes so that they were almost invisible except for glints just out of her field of vision. But the third plane was all about capturing motion, and here the guards stood out, patrolling the perimeters of the hall, ready to pounce at the hint of trouble.

The fourth plane was the most interesting of all. Out on the city streets, this plane would be flowing with color and emotions — enraptured lovers, petty fights, a good joke, the shadow of sickness. But here, the fourth plane was strangely muted for the size of the crowd. At Starkiller, people knew how to hide their emotions, through technology or mastery of the dark side of the Force. 

Of course, “Kira” wouldn’t have the tools to conceal her feelings. So Rey had instead woven a false aura on the fourth plane to reflect her dull personality. If she passed some higher-ranking official, she injected the aura with a shot of fear and reverence, which would be expected for someone in her position. So far, she had been good at avoiding attention. 

* * *

You can learn a lot about an organization from its trash, which is why the garbage collectors of society are also its best scientists.

Sometimes Rey liked to imagine herself this way: less a spy and more an archaeologist, digging up fragments of the First Order and seeing how they fit together. Occasionally she could risk stealing a few files hastily out of the cabinets. But mostly her finds came up crumpled from the bins: bits of meeting notes, abandoned blueprints, inventory lists with offending typos.

Mostly, the stuff was useless. The First Order weren't complete idiots, and the official policy was to destroy highly confidential documents if they weren’t being filed. But bored bureaucrats, grown soft for lack of real threat to their power, didn’t always follow policy. And even the most meaningless scraps of information could yield a vital clue when put together. One scrap might contain a guard’s schedule, the other the building he stood guard over. That gave them her team an advantage during break-ins. 

And, of course, she kept her ears peeled for information. The First Order’s vanity was its greatest weakness.[3] Rey looked nothing like a spy, so it was easy to grab quick snippets of conversation. 

* * *

After the day’s work, she took the bus to the nursing center. She hadn't visited in many months. Poe rightfully said she should avoid going too often -- the person she was visiting was one of the few links to her former life. So she poured her energy into her work instead, unless nostalgia pulled at her like it did today. 

“How has he been?” Rey asked the round-cheeked nurse in the room as soon as she entered, setting down her bag in the corner. She pulled up the chair to the bed.

“Well, you know how it is, dear… Same as ever!” he said cheerily. “I’m sure he enjoys your visits, though. I just know he can tell you’ve been here.” 

Rey looked down at Han Solo. 

To a stranger, he might just look asleep. But Rey saw years of being in a coma had made him thin. His wrinkles had deepened, he had lost his tan from working in the auto lot in the sun. Everything about his body was less. He had once seemed so solid to her. Larger-than-life. 

_(Careful, kid, don’t force it — you’ll just blow the engine and I’ll be out an assistant. You know how hard it is to find good ones these days? I had to dig you out of a scrapyard.)_

She pulled out an auto-mechanics manual. Reading to him out loud was best. A lump rose in her throat whenever she considered telling him what he meant to 15-year-old Rey. And she couldn't tell him about her new life, not here. 

( _Go on, you can go faster than that! If we don’t have at least one wreck today I’m a shitty-ass driving teacher.)_

The memories were all the more painful for being sweet, because of the way things ended. The ‘incident’ with the First Order member, _don't even think about their name_. The hearing, which brought no justice, which left her in debt and with a thirst for revenge… _Don’t think about that_ , she thought firmly. _Never about that._

( _Sometimes, kid, it’s easier not to think._ ) 

Sometimes it was easier to remember the day of the hearing as the day she first met Poe. As the day when her life fighting the Order began. 

* * *

_Six years earlier_

Tears burned hot at the corner of her eyes as she fled down the steps of the courthouse. She paused at the bottom, clenching her fists and taking deep breaths, trying to calm down. The tears began to pass, replaced with a cold dead weight in her stomach. No justice. And she now was in debt for 900 credits. That was more money than she had ever had in her life. 

“Hard day?” A man with wavy hair and a five o’clock shadow was leaning against a pillar at the bottom of the court steps. She recognized him; he had been an audience member sitting in the back at the hearing. 

She eyed him warily. “Could be better.” 

He pulled out a cigarette and offered her one.

“I don’t smoke,” she said. 

He shrugged. “Neither do I. But it’s a good excuse to hang around and talk.” 

There was a moment of silence while she tried to figure out whether he was flirting with her. That would be new. He took a drag of the cigarette. 

“They’re really a lousy bunch of assholes,” he said. 

She stared at him. Surely he couldn’t be talking about… 

“The First Order,” he clarified. “A bunch of assholes.” 

She looked around wildly, waiting for some government official in a black van to scoop them up. But no one came. People went up and down the court steps, too anxious or busy to pay attention to the man taking a smoke break. 

“Look,” she hissed, temper rising. She kept her voice low. “I’ve kind of had a shit day, yes. And I don’t know what game you’re playing at. And you really shouldn’t say that sort of thing in public, especially to strangers. I could be anyone, a spy —“ 

“But you’re not,” he said, grinning at her. 

She gaped at him. 

“Hey,” he said, “I know Han trusted you. Han’s a good man. And after what happened today, I’m betting you want to keep your options open. Employment-wise, that is. ” 

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small slip of paper. 

“I might have a position open. If you like getting rid of assholes. Think about it, and call that number if you’re ready. Name’s Poe Dameron, by the way.” 

He held out his hand. After a few moments, Rey shook it gingerly. When she let go, the slip of paper was in her palm. And then the man — Poe — walked away. 

She had gone back to visit Han after that. He was still at the hospital then, hooked up to a mess of tubes and beeping machines. The doctors said his prognosis wasn’t good. 

She walked back to her flat. She pulled out the slip of paper, dialed the number. The line picked up.

“I’m in,” she said. “Just tell me what I need to do.” 

* * *

_Present_

By the time she left Han’s bedside, the lights were dim in the hallway. A nurse padded past her, then slipped into another patient’s room. And then she was the only one walking towards the stairwell. 

She liked the bustle when she was at her flat, which always hummed with the activity of the Resistance. But she also held a certain reverence for public spaces at odd hours. Everything became surreal; the planes, devoid of life energy, collapsed into one. She could be the only person on the planet, without the lonely contrast of others standing together while she stood to the side. She could be happy with the companionship of herself. 

But as she reached the door that led to the stairwell, she felt an odd chill at her spine. Something compelled her to turn around. 

That was when she saw him. 

A figure sitting at a desk at the opposite end of the hallway, shadowy and indistinct. She took a few steps forward, and he slowly came into focus. A man, dark hair, sitting on a chair. [4] He was tall enough that he sat folded awkwardly, like furniture wasn't built to accommodate him. And his black eyes were watching her intensely. 

Their eyes met, and the man’s gaze widened like this was something he didn't expect, he _shifted_ — 

Rey blinked — 

And the image vanished. Heart pounding, she ran through the planes, but there was nothing unusual on any of them. The hallway was just a hallway. 

She was probably just tired. She had a long day, and spying at Starkiller had made her on edge and paranoid. It was probably a trick of the light. 

Still, she walked faster than usual to get home, and only breathed easy once she was inside the flat, put the kettle on for tea, spread the stolen documents out on the table, told Finn and Rose and Poe about her day. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 _Return of the Jedi_ : also the title of a nauseatingly popular opera written by Bazine Netal. The best way to control commoners was to give them small doses of what they were drawn to, yet feared. As long as the story ended with the Jedi renouncing their wicked ways and working for the good of the Order, of course. 
> 
> 2Or, in some cases, clean up after a certain minister who had a tendency to break windows. She had never seen him up close. According to Jannah (who had a passion for salacious First Order gossip) he really fancied pegging and some position involving a feather duster, but Rey had never had to clean up after _that_.
> 
> 3Not wearing a daringly sinister black silk? Not a threat. 
> 
> 4Not bad on the eyes, either, if she was being honest. For a creepy apparition.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As predicted, the security tape from Mitaka was completely useless. This time, it wouldn’t even play. Instead, the screen fuzzed with static while the tape sputtered sadly in the player.
> 
> On any other day, this would have sent Kylo into a stormy cloud of a mood. But today his mind buzzed with electricity. The tape didn’t matter; he had a fresh lead. His memory, the girl. Rey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to get this up sooner, but then current events happened. I hope everyone is staying as safe and healthy as they can under their respective circumstances. Thanks for reading/subscribing/kudos'ing/bookmarking!

**Kylo**  
_Present_

As predicted, the security tape from Mitaka was completely useless. This time, it wouldn’t even play. Instead, the screen fuzzed with static while the tape sputtered sadly in the player. 

On any other day, this would have sent Kylo into a stormy cloud of a mood. But today his mind buzzed with electricity. The tape didn’t matter; he had a fresh lead. His memory, the girl. Rey. 

“Mr. Mitaka?” he called. Mitaka cracked the door open and peeked in his head, no doubt remembering the last time a tape failed.[1] On seeing that everything seemed to be in one piece, he moved his body into Kylo’s office and stood to attention, holding his notebook like a shield. 

“Yes, sir?” 

Kylo frowned at the static on the screen, as though it had imparted some great wisdom. It hadn’t, of course, but let Mitaka think differently. “Get me any records we have on female commoners with the name Rey.” 

If this request confused Mitaka, he didn’t show it. Instead, he took out his pen and started to make a note, then paused. 

“How do you spell that, sir?” 

“Try a few combinations. R-E-I, R-E-Y, R-A-E. It could be a nickname, so also get records for Eurydice and Regina,[2] middle names included. And any others you can think of.” 

“Rachel?” Mitaka offered. 

That admittedly seemed more likely. “You get the picture.”

Mitaka scrunched his brow. “Any other criteria, sir? That could be a very long list. It would help if we could narrow it down.”

Kylo thought back to the girl. He did some quick math. “Maybe between the ages of 20-25? Give or take a couple of years. Make it 18-28. And put anyone with a criminal record at the top of the stack, no matter how small the crime.”

After Mitaka left, Kylo leaned over his desk. He had other matters to deal with. The Force technology at the National Museum needed updating. And he had been putting off reviewing the latest security plans for the premiere of _The Phantom Menace_ , the latest operatic bullshit. But his mind kept drifting off to places that might have made him uncomfortable, had they not also served a professional purpose -- cherry blossoms, freckles… 

When Mitaka arrived with the stack of documents and a steaming cup of coffee, he practically pounced. 

RACHEL EVANS. 28. A schoolteacher with a history of reckless driving. Her confiscated driver's license listed eyes as GRN, and hair as BLK. Not right. 

CORINNE RAE LLOYD. 18. Fined for underaged drinking. Possible, but a bit on the young side. 

REBECCA JANE HUMPHREYS. 22. He didn't bother to skim this one. Her photograph was on top of the file; not a match. 

It was a tall stack, but he went through each person one-by-one, setting aside any file worth examining in depth later. The coffee grew cold. He was an hour in without anyone too impressive. But then a name caught his attention. 

REY NIIMA. 23. 

The first name matched exactly. And her last name, _Niima_ , was a neighborhood at the edges of the city. An orphan, then. He opened the file. 

She'd been the subject of a hearing six years ago. He scanned through the proceedings, which were sparse. She had accused a First Order member of attacking her and her employee, a certain Mr. Hans Oslo. (Commoners had such bizarre names). He snorted and took a sip of his coffee, grimacing at the lukewarm temperature. This attack was a likely story, given Kylo's encounter with her crocodile tears. The judge had thought so too. Ms. Rey Niima didn't have a scratch on her and had been fined 900 credits for wasting the court and the Order's time. So far so good, but then Kylo reached the last note in the file. 

She had paid the 900 credits in full a week later. 

How could someone like her — without a wealthy family, judging by her last name — come up with 900 credits so quickly? She must have had a benefactor. Perhaps the Resistance itself?

A psychological profile was beginning to come together. An orphan, bitter and abandoned, uneducated, with a specific grudge against the First Order. This Rey could definitely be the girl. 

Maybe ‘Hans Oslo’ was an associate? 

He re-read the file, looking for the name of the Order member she had accused, but it wasn't recorded. Those scribes at the lower courts were the bottom of the barrel. Hearing documents were always riddled with errors that rarely went checked, given the First Order’s indifference to squabbles among commoners. Or the scribe had simply been nervous about putting the name of a government accused on a permanent record.

There were no other files under her name. That was odd. No hospitalizations, no apartment rentals, not even a parking ticket. After the hearing, she had fallen off the map. 

Mitaka popped in again. “Prime Minister Snoke’s secretary just called, sir. He wants to see you tomorrow at ten in the morning sharp.” 

Kylo sighed. He had been expecting this sooner. But of course, Snoke liked to keep him waiting, keep him working in suspense like a rat on a wheel. He cleared his schedule for the rest of the next day. His meetings with Snoke usually left him unpresentable to the rest of the Order. 

* * *

Prime Minister Snoke’s office stood at the very center of Starkiller, the center of all power. To get there, Kylo had to go down an imposing windowless hallway which opened up on a courtyard. The tight darkness followed by the sudden shock of sky was meant to be unnerving, but Kylo had made this journey many times. He could steel his feelings. 

The courtyard itself was Snoke’s office. Black granite made up the floor and walls like the rest of Starkiller, but here the stone was polished to its highest shine. An enormous dark and gleaming pool filled a good third of the room, aspens standing deathly white at the edges.[3] A Force roof, invisible on the first plane, protected the courtyard from the elements and intruders. 

To speak to the Prime Minister, he had to cross to the other side of the pool and stand facing the desk, his back to the water. Snoke barely looked up as he stood there. Kylo was used to this tactic, the drawn-out tension of it all, and so waited patiently. 

“You have failed me again, Kylo Ren.” 

Kylo said nothing. He would never offer excuses. 

“Ms. Phasma reports another warehouse break-in. It seems despite all your feeble efforts, the Resistance still plagues us.”

Again, nothing from Kylo. Finally, Snoke looked up from his papers, his hooded eyes boring into Kylo's. 

“I shouldn’t have expected much from a boy with such sloppy training so early on. You lack discipline. Perhaps you aren’t suited for this job after all.” 

That was the pressure point at which Kylo always caved. He knew his past was his weakness, a trap he couldn’t help falling into again and again. “I won’t fail you again. I’ll have the Resistance under heel by the end of the month. Sooner.” 

Without warning, he felt Snoke push into his mind. It was a lazy job, blunt and painful, more of a warning than a search for information. Kylo pushed his document-reading to the forefront, hiding his memory of Rey as planned. The lead was too thin, he had told himself. Best to keep it to himself until he had stronger evidence. 

“We shall see,” Snoke said finally. “In the meantime...”

The usual pain leaped like fire through his veins. He gritted his teeth. The usual red stain spread through the water in the pool. His own blood. 

Faint scratching noises from Snoke’s pen. The hum of the pool’s filter kicked in. Soon the water would again be crystal clear. 

* * *

_ Before _

“What’s your name, kid?” the voice asked. 

Kylo[4] was thirteen, standing in the entryway of the strange house, his new home. He was staring down at his feet. The carpet was a cold and spotless white. He had never been anywhere so manicured. This was power: keeping decor so impractical. 

“Don’t you know how to behave when your new master asks you a question?” 

Kylo still didn’t look up. He had always found it hard to meet new people, and harder to make eye contact. He just stared at the carpet. The wards on the second plane glowed in impossibly neat rows. “I don’t have a name, sir.” 

The voice laughed. “Smart kid. Too smart for your former master, that’s for sure. Good thing they brought you to me.” 

Kylo breathed out slowly through his nose, chest brimming with pride. He had passed the first test. 

“Of course,” his master continued pleasantly, as though remarking on the weather, “they still failed you. You still know your name. It’s written all over your mind, _Ben Solo_. So this is your first lesson.” 

And then his mind was being _squeezed_ , he felt like he was suffocating from the inside, he was twelve and he was dying, on this plane, on all the planes —

Blind with pain and nausea, he heard his master’s voice again. 

“Forget your name, kid. Knowing it makes doing this far too easy for me…this isn’t even fun...”

And then his world went black. 

* * *

_ Present _

Pain was instructive. By the time he had limped from his meeting with Snoke back to his office and collapsed at his desk, a plan was beginning to form. 

He knew there were planes, higher planes that he wasn’t capable of seeing, where distances could be shortened. Even if he could see them, those planes were hard to navigate, given the strangeness of their space to the human mind. 

But if he used her name as an anchor in chalk and output the image on the first plane… It was a crude method, but he thought with his Force capabilities and a steady drawing hand it might work. And he was eager to get started. If he consulted the First Order engineers for a more robust solution it could take weeks. So chalk it was. 

The method was tricky, relying on extensive diagraming. He had to push aside his desk for the whole thing to fit on the office floor. He could have used some other room in Starkiller, intended for this sort of work. But his office was the only room he trusted to keep from prying eyes. He liked to keep his cards close to his chest. He couldn’t let his enemies claim his victories. 

And he relished the complexity of the work. It distracted from the pain shooting through his body, the occasional streaks of blood he left on the floor. By the time he was finished, darkness had fallen and the halls of Starkiller were quiet. The whole pattern centered around two loops, temporarily empty. He placed a chair in one, and a candle on a stand, careful to avoid disturbing the chalk on the floor. The second remained empty, save for the name he had inscribed on the edges with his neat, tight script: Rey Niima. 

He struck a match and lit the candle. He sat in the chair. And he shoved his mind as hard as he could towards a space in the diagram fit to channel the Force. 

At first, he thought it hadn’t worked. But then he saw the air in the loop across from him begin to shimmer, slowly beginning to form an image. He leaned forward in the chair — 

and then she was standing across from him.

She had her back turned, but he immediately recognized the unusual three bun hairstyle, the defiant slope of her shoulders. Some unknown impulse gripped at his chest — he flicked to the fourth plane — but there was nothing there, no brilliant aura. 

Of course that would be the case. Her image was only projected on the first plane. Why had he forgotten that? 

To distract himself from his stupidity, he analyzed what she was wearing. A faded beige shirt fraying at the collar. Sensible scuffed shoes. She clearly hadn’t earned enough money[5] to keep from wearing out her clothes since their last meeting. 

Inky blackness surrounded her, as though she were standing in a tunnel with a spotlight directly on her. Searching for more clues, he tried to push harder on the space in the diagram for the Force, willing her surroundings to resolve. He thought she was standing at the end of a hallway, but the walls were fuzzy… 

Then she turned around. 

Ever since he remembered their meeting, he had gone over her face in his memory again and again. But he wasn’t prepared for the sharpness of it all, no longer fogged by his own mind. Her sharp eyebrows. Hazel eyes. Little wrinkles forming at her brow… 

She was making eye contact. Gazing straight at him. And he knew in that moment that _she could see him too_. 

He frantically leaned over and blew out the candle. Rey vanished, the room plunged into darkness. 

His hands were shaking. _How could that have happened?_

His eyes roved over the diagram, desperately looking for the flaw. When he didn’t see any, he closed his eyes and took a few steadying breaths. _Concentrate._ He looked again. The diagram was flawless. He hadn’t made a mistake. There should be no way for her to see him. 

Unless — the thought was insane, preposterous, but it was the only thing that made sense — unless she was gifted in the Force too. 

_That_ would certainly make the chase more interesting. He was calm now, almost grinning, tasting his own blood like iron in his mouth. Kylo had never backed down from a challenge. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Three casualties: a window, a priceless ancient urn, an interior decorator’s career. That last casualty was well-deserved. Only an idiot would decorate the volatile Security Minister’s office with a _priceless ancient urn_. 
> 
> 2 Order Ministers were not, as a rule, up-to-date on commoner naming trends. 
> 
> 3 Trees didn’t do well under such dark settings, so they had to be replaced every month or so. The work was generally done after hours, but Kylo did take a not-insignificant pleasure in trying to force Hux into facing Snoke in a hardhat. 
> 
> 4 He wasn’t Kylo Ren then, of course, but ‘Kylo’ was how he always thought of himself. Even in his deepest memories, even in his sleep. 
> 
> 5 Or, more accurately, she clearly hadn’t stolen enough money by brazenly waylaying innocent do-gooders. He could definitely imagine her mugging a nun. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Leia must have seen her quizzical look. “It’s not much, but it should help you in your journey to becoming a Jedi.”_
> 
> _Rey stared, her mind racing. She understood what Leia was saying, but it didn’t quite fit together, as though Leia had mistaken her for some famous actress. She would have to figure out how to let their new benefactor down gently. "But I can't be a Jedi," she said finally. "I don't know anything about the planes."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing in the time of quarantine is hard if you’re used to writing outside the home. It’s been slow going. But I hope you guys enjoy this Resistance-centric chapter, though it's light on shippy business. (Hopefully not too boring?) I've also plotted out the whole fic in greater detail (see updated chapter count), so the plot should be on firmer footing now.

**The Cast** (continued)

 ****_Commoners_

Ms. Rose Tico, Resistance

Mr. Finn Drew, Resistance

Ms. Leia Organa, Resistance benefactor

Ms. Kaydel Ko Connix, assistant to Ms. Leia Organa

* * *

**Rey**

_Before_

It turned out being part of Poe’s gang was simple: you just had to make as much trouble for the First Order as possible. Sometimes that meant leaving pamphlets in a prominent location, sometimes it meant setting fire to a car outside the opera where the latest Order-backed production was playing.[1] Sometimes it meant pickpocketing a member. 

Poe was a strong leader, with a good eye for gang recruitment. They all brought different talents to the group. 

Rose understood the technology the best. Rey wasn't bad herself (she had always had a knack for tinkering), but the strange melding of the Force and metal didn't make as much sense to her. It felt _sneaky_. Not like the insides of a car. But Rose took it all in her stride, identifying artifacts at a glance and even making advanced modifications. 

Finn knew the First Order best. He had worked as a valet for a minor member a few years back, a scholar who preferred his books to politics. But Finn’s work had shown him the cruelty of the First Order, the backstabbing, the many ways they’d work to crush the population. He understood how they thought, where they congregated. That made it easier to pick their targets and use situations to their advantage. 

Rey wasn’t sure where she fit in, exactly. She was good with cars, but Poe was a better getaway driver. She supposed she had a knack for sensing trouble. If she said it was time to go, the others knew to listen. But she was happy to just help out where she could, happy to take whatever role she needed to needle the First Order. 

* * *

The four letters that arrived at the flat the same day weren't anything like the usual bills. The thick envelopes were cream-colored and soft to the touch. Each one was addressed to a different resident of the flat. 

Finn was instantly suspicious when Rey brought the bundle of mail into the living room. “Don’t open those, they’re probably full of poison powder.” 

“Ooo, I’ll get out my chemistry test strips!” Rose said enthusiastically. 

Rey rolled her eyes, but she did use the corner of her sleeve to gingerly undo her envelope and slide out the card. (Finn and Rose sighed as nothing happened: Finn in relief, Rose in disappointment.) 

_Dear Ms. Rey Niima,_

_I write on behalf of Ms. Leia Organa to invite you to dinner on Monday, April 20 at the enclosed address. Ms. Organa would like to discuss a potential funding opportunity for your organization. She suspects her philanthropic record makes her a good fit for your work._

_Cordially,_

_Ms. Kaydel Ko Connix_

Rey read it out loud, frowning. The paper smelled faintly of lavender. She had never received a formal invitation before, and she wasn’t sure if there was some veiled message. She looked at Finn and Rose, who shrugged. No one was sure what to make of the letter, and when they opened their respective envelopes the message was the same. 

“Poe,” Rey called, “have you heard of a ‘Leia Organa’?” 

Poe walked in from the kitchen, triumphantly brandishing a charred grilled cheese sandwich. 

“Yeah, I’ve heard of her, but I don’t know much. She was a senator back when they still had senators. Pretty loud against the First Order — I don’t think she joined the new government. Why?” 

Rey handed him the letter. He took it in his sandwich-free hand and began to read. “Do you think she knows about us? Could she help?” Rey asked.

When Poe finished, he looked up and waggled his eyebrows. He had the same look as when he was about to perform a particularly reckless stunt with the Falcon. “Only one way to find out...” 

* * *

Ms. Leia Organa’s townhome was in an older part of town, since fallen out of favor among the rich and powerful. The dry fountain in the square betrayed its former glory. Not that Rey would have picked that up on her own, if Poe hadn’t filled them in as they drove up. It was still one of the finest streets she had ever been in, the streetlamps, the houses with a few warm windows lit up, the great oaks casting shadows. 

They all huddled on the stoop as Poe rang the bell. The door was almost immediately answered by a woman in a sleek pantsuit, hair in two buns at the top of her head. She looked intimidatingly professional, and Rey felt a bit scruffy in her long denim skirt, which had seen better days. 

“Mr. Drew. Ms. Niima. Ms. Tico. Mr. Dameron,” she said, nodding to them one at a time. (A little smugly: no one asked how she knew their names.) “I’m Kaydel Connix, Ms. Organa’s assistant. Ms. Organa will be happy that you all could make it. Now, if you could follow —” 

“No need to make them feel like they’re being led to their executions, Kaydel!” A voice said from the end of the hallway. A middle-aged woman in a loose white dress, hair tied up elaborately, beckoned them forward. “You can call me Leia. Come, dinner’s getting cold!” 

Dinner turned out to be a full-fledged multi-course affair. Rey tried to figure out the various forks before giving up and using the biggest one. Better for shoveling. Luckily, Leia was too polite to point out her poor table manners. Despite the unexpected manner in which she had reached out to them, she was a gracious host, open and warm. She talked about the neighborhood. She had some interesting anecdotes about its fall from grace after the First Order took over, which Poe, the revolutionary history buff, was eager to hear. Slowly, the group relaxed. 

"I was happy to hear that you give my husband a visit every now and then," she said, winking mischievously at Rey halfway through the soup course. 

Rey started, a bit of soup dribbling out of her mouth. Poe coughed a laugh into his napkin as she blushed and wiped it away. "Your husband?" 

“Han. He didn’t tell you he had a wife? Well, that doesn’t surprise me,” said Leia. “He’s always stubborn as a mule and we weren’t on the best of terms then. Never one for ‘social niceties.’ He was always happier with his blasted engines than people.” But there was no malice in her voice, and she had an almost wistful look in her eyes. 

Rey tried to imagine Han Solo stretched out on the velvet settee in the parlor they had passed, but failed. 

“I know this must be hard to talk about,” Leia said, “but I couldn’t get much information from those doctors. Do they know why you weren’t as affected by the attack?” She spoke in the straightforward way of someone used to compartmentalizing tragedy. She must have seen her fair share when the First Order came to power. 

Rey saw Finn and Rose exchange worried looks at that question, and Poe stared at her intently. They knew Rey hated to talk about that day.

Rey gave them a smile she hoped was reassuring, then swallowed. “I don’t know, really,” she said honestly. “They asked at the hearing. I blacked out, but when I woke up in the hospital all I had was a headache, and they released me the same day. I was standing right next to him. He was running to defend me. I don’t know why I didn’t get hit as badly as he did.” She stared at her spoon, willing her vision to stop misting. “Just lucky, I suppose.” 

“I see.” Leia studied her closely but didn’t press the issue, for which Rey was grateful. 

Instead, she changed topics and soon had them all laughing at anecdotes about Han (“You know what he said then? ‘I know’!”). Rey could tell Poe was itching to ask about funding, but he was holding back. It was good for the team to feel _normal_ once in a while, as though they were just having a dinner party with good friends, as though they had all met in the normal way. At school, at a bar — even at a fucking knitting club. 

But after dessert, their waistbands uncomfortably tight, Leia got down to business. 

“I imagine you know why you’re here. We have a mutual interest in taking down our _fantastic_ government.” 

No one said anything. They were still cautious.

“I don’t expect you to reveal everything to me immediately. I would be cautious too. But we don’t know your names through First Order nefariousness. Kaydel has been keeping an eye on you all. We were watching Rey after what happened to my husband, and were happy to see she found a good crowd. I think you could move on to bigger things, with my help. These things need money and experience, both of which I, fortunately, can provide. Let me show you.”

She led them all into the study: a warm room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, an elaborate red carpet that had seen better days, and a second door at the opposite end. But the main draw was the table in the center of the room, packed with technology to manipulate the planes. Elemental spheres, inferno sticks, detonation cubes, all clearly from older stock, but in good condition. 

“ _Retro_!” Rose squealed excitedly as they all crowded around the table. “I love old technology. It’s actually more reliable than the new stuff — the engineers churn out tech so fast now — a lot of it _looks_ flashy but doesn’t have much substance —” 

She picked up an orb and chattered away at Poe and Finn as Leia pulled Rey aside. 

“I have something I think only _you_ will be able to use," she said, frowning as she scanned the shelves. After a few moments, she pulled out a worn leather-bound book and handed it to Rey. 

_The Annotated_ Aionomica _: An Introduction to the Jedi Order._

It was clearly a valuable volume. The First Order strictly regulated Jedi texts unless you were a government-backed researcher with a “compelling thesis.” In practical terms, this made it impossible for commoners to read anything that didn’t come from a heavily censored official publication. But Rey also didn’t see how it could help them in their mission. The book was a bit _theoretical._ The Jedi hadn’t been around in years. 

Leia must have seen her quizzical look. “It’s not much, but it should help you in your journey to becoming a Jedi.” 

Rey stared, her mind racing. She understood what Leia was saying, but it didn’t quite fit together, as though Leia had mistaken her for some famous actress. She would have to figure out how to let their new benefactor down gently. "But I can't be a Jedi," she said finally. "I don't know anything about the planes." 

"Is that so now?" said Leia, undeterred. "Indulge me for a moment, and tell me how this room is protected." 

Rey looked around and took stock. "Well, there are a few wards in the pattern of the wallpaper, I think. And one on that door. But anyone could tell you that, they're not exactly subtle." 

Leia smiled. "Really? Let's do a quick experiment. Mr. Dameron, could you step into the next room, please? I have something else I want to show you."

Poe stepped towards the warded door, reaching for the knob — Rey yelled out a warning, but it was too late. 

“Fuck!” he yelped, tugging away his hand as if he had been burned. “What the hell? Did the fucking door just _bite_ me?” 

Leia raised a sly eyebrow at Rey, who frowned. “Poe’s impulsive,” she said, “he always dives in without looking, doesn’t prove anything.” 

Finn and Rose had stopped chatting and were staring at her now along with Poe. Even Kaydel was looking curious. 

“You really couldn’t see that coming?" Rey asked. “Look at the door again.” 

"Rey, we don't know what you're talking about,” Finn said slowly. “It’s just a door.”

“With an insatiable hunger for Dameron flesh,” added Rose helpfully.

“But look closer, it’s clearly been warded, it’s all… glowy and stuff,” Rey said impatiently. “You just have to kind of squint your eyes and tilt your head, only in your mind, if that makes sense. You know.” They had to be playing a trick on her. How could it be so _obvious_ to her and not them?

“Whatever you say,” Finn grinned, as though _she_ were joking. 

“But --” Rey fell silent, suddenly worried they would think she was going insane. She almost felt like a child again, raising her hand with a stupid question any student could have answered. Luckily, Leia was there to intervene. 

“You’re not crazy, Rey.” Her voice was gentle. “You’re just sensitive to the planes. I suspect that’s how you were able to shield yourself from the attack that put my husband in a coma. Haven’t you ever felt _something_ that no one else could sense?” 

“I just have good instincts,” she protested. 

“Instincts, yes. Instincts for sensing the planes. And instincts for the Force that can be trained.” 

Rey digested this. It was true, she had often been able to see things the others couldn’t. Sometimes she would just have a _feeling_ , and the police would show up a moment later. They’d gotten out of many close scrapes because of her ‘instincts.’ 

“I have a bit of sensitivity for the planes myself, but it’s nothing I could ever hone,” Leia continued. “My brother could have trained you. But I haven’t heard from him in several years. So this is the best I can give you: knowledge.” 

Rey took the book in her hands, the leather warming against her hand. 

“Jedi, huh?” said Poe, beaming as though this were a personal complement to him. “I knew you were a good pickup.” 

The hope that radiated from her friends felt fragile, like a soap bubble she was afraid of bursting. But its delicateness made her all the more determined to succeed. She wouldn’t let her new family down — not like Han, not again. 

* * *

The old Jedi handbook was short on practical applications. But from what Rey could glean on her own, there was a lot of meditation involved in being a Jedi, so every morning she sat cross-legged next to her bed, taking deep breaths and attempting to ‘clear her mind.’[2] After that, for good measure, she would methodically flip through the planes she could access. Each one had contours and quirks she was determined to memorize. 

Sometimes Finn or Rose would help her. Rose would hide an artifact and she’d have to detect it on the second plane. Or Finn would sit in the kitchen across from her, and Rey would close her eyes. 

“Think of a number,” she told him, flipping to the fourth plane. 

“Okay, I’ve got a good one,” he said. 

The fourth plane felt unchanged. She nudged forward with her mind, unsure.

“Twenty eight?” She ventured. 

“Close!” said Finn cheerfully. “It was actually 735! You were only seven hundred or so off!” 

Rey tilted her head back and groaned. “This is pointless.” 

“Come on,” Finn coaxed. “You’ll get it eventually. Try again?” 

She settled back into place. 

“362?” 

“Nope! I was actually thinking about Poe dancing naked to the tune of First Order military bugles.[3]”

“That’s unfair,” Rey said as they both cackled. 

A golden light flared up on the fourth plane, then grew brighter as Poe came in and asked what all the fuss was about. The renewed laughter from Finn lit up the dim kitchen like a bonfire. 

Maybe she was going about this the wrong way, she thought. Maybe the Force wasn’t a pickaxe that could split the planes or mine facts from the mind. Maybe it was subtler, more delicate, but with greater depth. More like the relationship between a tree trunk and the leaf. Or the energy that flowed between people. 

* * *

_Present_

For the first time in months, Rey felt a stab of nerves as she entered Starkiller with the other workers. She quickly tamped the feeling down, scolding herself for the lapse. But the bored security guards knew her face well by now, and didn't even glance up as she waved her badge. 

She had been on edge since her last visit with Han. The planes looked the same as far as she could tell. But an odd sensation would flit at the back of her mind, cold and sharp like the edge of the knife. She had tried to probe it, but it was always outside her grasp. 

And she was having strange dreams. Nothing specific she could remember. A haze of pain, the taste of iron, dark rooms. She’d wake up in a cold sweat. 

Janitorial work felt almost soothing. There was something about the physical labor of cleaning that she enjoyed. Like the old comfort she felt working on engines with Han. 

Pickings were slim that day. She wasn’t seeing anything especially interesting — mostly the remains of breakfast — until she pushed the trash cart into one of the printing rooms. The room was small and windowless, tucked into a corner of Starkiller. But it sometimes contained gems from bureaucrats that sent one too many jobs to the printer queue. And today, there was _something_ there — maybe not a gem, she wasn’t sure yet, but certainly something _interesting._

On the very top of the wastebasket, there was a package in brown paper. Wrapped with care, clearly. And in neat print, on the front: _For the curious janitor, a token of trust._

She kept her eyes nonchalantly on the trash as she switched to the fourth plane. Everything was still. No one was in the hall outside. The other planes were unremarkable, even the second, where she eyed the package with care. 

She tipped the contents of the bin into her cart. Later, she would slip the package into her backpack, mind churning with possibilities and precautions. 

* * *

The tape inside the package started with a view of a warehouse. Grainy grey and white, clearly taken at night. 

Leaning forward on the sofa, Rey watched herself scramble up the fence, then help Rose and Finn over. She watched as Rose used the welding wand on the warehouse door, melting the metal. And then they all disappeared inside. 

“Why do they even have this tape?” Poe grimaced next to her. “Don’t we usually check for cams?” 

“It was probably an old cam, no Force technology,” Rey said guiltily. “Those don’t stick out as much on the second plane.” They would have to remember to look more carefully next time. 

“So why leave this in the trash?” Poe asked.

“He’s blackmailing us,” Finn said immediately. 

“Could be a woman,” Rose pointed out. 

“Fine,” Finn conceded, “he _or she_ is blackmailing us. There’s no way they don’t have a copy of the tape. Maybe it’s even bugged, they’re trying to track us to the source.” 

“Definitely not bugged. Rey and I know our stuff,” Rose insisted. 

Rey had used a telephone box to call ahead at the apartment, and they had met at a cafe none of them had ever been to before, crowded but with a mess of more private booths in the back. Rose had carefully checked the tape over while Rey focused on flicking through the planes once more. It was ordinary. 

Rey bent over the coffee table, where they had spread out the rest of the package’s contents. Blueprints of the National Museum. A list of key artifacts, potential targets to steal, which she assumed was the point of the package. A photograph of a single item, a chalice, which was all the mysterious package-giver seemed to want. The chalice seemed ordinary in terms of Force technology, a gaudy trinket — maybe he was some sort of collector. Some rich guy who got hard for stolen artifacts, would roll them out at dinner parties. 

Finn wasn’t wrong. The tape was a token of trust, yes, but it also included a threat: _I know who you are. Help me or else._

“Well,” she said slowly. “Whether or not we’re being blackmailed, this is still useful stuff. And now we have the means to get it.” 

“So we’re robbing a museum.” Finn stated. They all glanced over at Poe, who nodded. 

Rey grinned. “I guess we are.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Luckily, they never actually had to attend the opera. The thought of sitting through four hours of sentimental government shlock made a few toenail-yanking sessions seem appealing. Rey wondered if the First Order also used the operatics to torture prisoners. 
> 
> 2 It was hard to say whether that meant “imagine yourself on a beach without a care in the world” or “imagine yourself as an unfathomable black void,” so she did both for good measure. 
> 
> 3 This was completely unrealistic. By official decree, the First Order bugles only played music more suitable to funerary rites than _dancing._


End file.
